


Falling

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD, S03/TAB fill in the blanks, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-12 02:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18437024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: The nightmare is always the same: I'm falling, endlessly falling. There is nothing else to it: no sight  of the ground approaching, no wind whistling past, nothing until thatsound: my name, turned into a wail of despair:SHERLOCK!And I bolt upright on the bed, hands flying to my ears to block out that phantom scream.It's odd: One would think it'd be my torture in Serbia that gives me nightmares, but those monsters are mostly moribund, only occasionally growling behind their locked doors. It's the fall, the magic trick that haunts my nights. Silly, really; I'd danced away from it without a scratch.But it had cost me everything.The nightmare comes every time I drop off. Every. Single. Time.I'm going to fall forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is one of those fics that had its own ideas about how it wanted to be written. It ended up quite different from how I thought it was going to. Basically, it turned out to be S03 and TAB from Sherlock's POV, where I concentrate on filling in the blanks. For example, one biggie: John and Mary get married in May, so a month later is June, then at Christmas, Mummy Holmes is justifying a family Christmas by explaining Sherlock is out of the hospital. Clearly, Moftiss skipped a whole bunch of stuff. It does kind of hopscotch through S03; I didn't have much interest in simply retelling what was familiar. 
> 
> Anyway (it being me) there's quite a bit of angst ahead, but I stay true to canon, so no worries. I hope you enjoy!

The nightmare is always the same: I'm falling, endlessly falling. There is nothing else to it: no sight of the ground approaching, no wind whistling past, nothing until that _sound_ : my name, turned into a wail of despair: 

_SHERLOCK!_

And I bolt upright on the bed, hands flying to my ears to shut out that phantom scream. It takes long minutes for my eyes to focus on my familiar bedroom and I can convince myself this is the waking world. I am home. 

It's odd. One would think it'd be my torture in Serbia that gives me nightmares, but those monsters are mostly moribund, only occasionally growling in their locked closets. Since I returned, it's the fall, the magic trick, that haunts my dreams. Silly, really; I'd danced away from it without a scratch. 

But it had cost me everything. 

I'm not ready to either get out of bed or lie back down, so I compromise, drawing my legs up and resting my head on my knees. The nightmare comes every time I drop off. Every. single. time. I've gotten to fear sleep and go to ridiculous lengths to avoid it. In the daytime, I slap on multiple nicotine patches and quaff massive amounts of caffeine (nothing stronger yet, although the temptation looms.) I don't allow myself to stop for a moment, mowing through cold cases. I juggle three different experiments at once, arrange and rearrange my books, my papers, my sock index. I compose: music, monographs, blog entries. I buy books and tapes to teach myself Norwegian. But of course, inevitably, my transport gives out and pitches me headlong into sleep and another fall. 

I'm going to fall forever. 

I huddle into myself a little closer, trying to generate some warmth. It is so _hatefully_ quiet, now that I'm alone in the flat. I thought I'd found a friend for life in John Watson, but to save my friend's life, I'd had to destroy the friendship. True, Mary had said she'd talk him around, but... 

No finish to that thought presents itself, and I realise I have to move or get pulled back under sleep's waters. I'm not ready to fall again so soon, so I wipe the grit from my eyes and stalk to the shower. 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

Daytime, at a crime scene which turned out to be only a 4, but I can't mind too much, as it gave me a reason to keep moving. Lestrade takes notes while I explain some details of the blood splatter, and suddenly -- 

Falling. 

The exact sensation as the nightmare, falling without logic and without end. My body seems very far away, but I feel Lestrade's hands clamp onto my upper arms and hear his voice as if underwater: 

"Whoa, Sherlock! What's wrong?" 

It takes tremendous effort to force words past my teeth. "I'm fa -- falling." 

"Falling? Dizzy?" There are two fingers pressing under my chin, gently but insistently coaxing me to lift my head. "Look at me, son. Did you take something?" 

I want to growl and snap, because honestly, is that _always_ going to be the assumption? Although, given our history, I have to concede the logic. I concentrate on enunciating clearly. "I'm clean." Then I draw a deep breath, trying to bring my mind to bear on this rather unique problem. I'm falling. Very well, how does one stop falling? By making contact with the ground, of course. Experimentally, I move my foot and am rewarded with the scrape of my sole on pavement. Excellent. I try a baby step forward. The world pitches and yaws, flipping my stomach over before gravity reasserts itself. The relief is so great, I let myself sag against Lestrade for a moment before I push away. 

"Better. Thanks, Gavin, I'm better now." 

"Huh. When was the last time you ate something?" 

I had, in fact, eaten breakfast, but I keep my face carefully blank and frown a bit as if trying to remember. Lestrade, bless his simple heart, jumps to the obvious conclusion. 

"Another mystery solved. Donovan! You got any of those granola bars you're forever toting around?" 

Granola, bleah. "I'm fine. I'll eat as soon as I get home. Promise." I walk off, raising my hand to hail a cab. 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

On the one hand, if it's going to happen while awake, it's illogical to keep fighting sleep. On the other hand, it's disconcerting to never know when the ground is going to drop out from under me. I try keeping a journal of the incidents: Relaxed in my chair, a cup of tea halfway to my lips -- falling. Designing an experiment involving a pig's liver and an array of enzymes -- falling. Trying to master a tricky passage on the violin -- falling. Attempting to suss out a trigger, I take note of the time of day, my activity, time since my last meal/sleep/bowel movement; even my emotional state (78% of those entries read 'bored', but that's my default, so it's inconclusive.) The foot-scrape trick works 83% of the time; the rest of the time, I can only wait for it to pass, which takes an average of 1.2 minutes. 

No pattern. No warning. 

Just falling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding bells, an unexpected deduction, and Sherlock makes a completely reasonable decision...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of drugs this chapter.

Mary's as good as her word. She has indeed talked John around, and suddenly, everything's brilliant. There's a wedding to plan, and I'm the best man (even better: best _friend_.) The Crime Wall becomes a Planning Wall, and the days fly by in blizzards of activity, flurries of decision-making, and sudden squalls of napkin-folding. John's eyes dance with light and laughter most of the time. Waves of happiness literally radiate from the man, and I can't help but bask in it. 

And Mary? Mary is _wonderful._ Physically attractive, of course, with golden hair, blue eyes, and a smile like the sun rising. Far more importantly, she's not boring. She's clever, warm-hearted, funny, and has a tantalising depth to her personality. She holds a closely guarded secret, but I've resolved not to deduce or investigate it. I know John's subconsciously responding to that hint of mystery, and I refuse to ruin it for him. 

Trust John Watson to pick someone so perfect. She's not at all jealous of the bond between John and me, encouraging us to be together. She's fascinated by the Work, and we spend many a pleasant evening sharing cartons of Thai takeaway while we toss around theories or sift through evidence. 

Several weeks into it, I'm working on their waltz when it occurs to me I haven't had a falling episode since...well, since John had come back into my life. _John Watson, you keep me right._ This thought makes me happy, and the lightness translates into the music. The first movement had some sombre undertones; the second is pure puffery. It gives the impression of a love that lifts the couple above the clouds. I reprise the sombre notes at the end, bringing the lovers back to Earth before sending them off into the sunset with a final, drawn-out quaver. 

It's easily the best thing I've ever written. 

************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

Wedding day, and only the mantra _For John, for John_ enables me to face it. Weddings involve so much that is anathema to me: Sentiment. Churches. Crowds. Wearing a tie. Noise. Polite conversation. Thank heaven, there's an attempted murder I can distract myself with; otherwise, I might have gone mad before the cake cutting. 

Finally, I'm able to play my waltz, a bit belatedly, but it goes over very well. I'm so proud of John: there's just a bit of stiffness in his movements, but for someone who literally could not dance a step mere weeks ago, he comports himself brilliantly. He even dips Mary at the end: a move we hadn't practised, but he pulls it off with panache. As the last note dies away, I step to the microphone to say a last few words, and the deduction that had been coalescing all day slips out of my mouth without checking in at my brain first: 

_The three of you..._

And suddenly -- falling. Fortunately, a foot-scrape aborts the sensation and I'm able to babble a joke about miscounting. I hurry off the stage before I can make a bigger fool out of myself. John pulls me aside, a question writ large in his eyes. I explain my deductions and see realisation dawn on Mary's face while John's expression shutters through a medley of emotions in a matter of seconds: disbelief, panic, worry, acceptance, and finally joy. He actually laughs out loud, his hand warm on the nape of my neck as he pulls me into a three-way embrace. It feels wonderful, being included in their happiness, but I know it can't last and say as much: 

"You're not going to need me, now you have a real baby." 

_"You're not going to need me..."_

_"You're not going to need me..."_

Right. John's smiling with his whole body, and I'm happy for him; I truly am, but my head is spinning and the disco starting up with its coloured strobes and thumping bass adds to my disorientation. The air is suddenly very close; I have to get out of there. I slip away as soon as I can, flinging on my coat as I stalk into the night. I only manage about two blocks when -- 

Falling. 

Falling. 

Falling right out of John Watson's life. 

The foot-scrape is proving ineffective this time, but fortunately, there's a low stone wall fronting a garden nearby. I have just enough wherewithal to stagger over there and sat heavily until the episode ends, 1.68 minutes later. 

I raise my head and look about, trying to decide where to go. Back to the party is unthinkable; home only slightly more appealing. Mycroft...well, Mycroft can just piss off. He'd blown me off earlier, and that taunt about Redbeard had been below the belt. 

A bolthole, then. I draw in a sharp breath as a deep, sudden craving for the type of thing I used to do in those boltholes washes over me. But no, that couldn't happen. I'd made a vow, hadn't I? I would "be there" for the Watsons. I could hardly keep that promise if I were strung out. Not to mention John would certainly not allow a junkie anywhere near his shiny new family. 

Still...there's such a thing as moderation. I can use without being an addict, after all. I won't let it spiral; just a couple of hits to get me over this rough patch. Surely that's reasonable. I repeat it to myself a couple of times and it becomes the most reasonable thing in the world. I'm feeling almost jaunty as I walk to the main road and hail a cab to take me back to central London. A whisper to my homeless network, and I'll have an eightball in my hands within minutes. 

And tomorrow, I'll start looking for a superior distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments put spring in my step.
> 
> Next chapter: the evil dragon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be dragons...but there's always something, isn't there?

Magnussen. 

Charles Augustus Magnussen. 

The Napoleon of blackmail. 

And on a more personally relevant note, a bully. 

I'm going to take great relish in slaying this particular dragon. The dragon feeds on gossip, and I have a perfectly delectable tidbit to dangle in front of it: 

**Sherlock Holmes Has a Drug Problem!**

I bait my hook meticulously. I let my beard go to stubble and make sure people see me leaving my flat in ratty track suits and dirty hoodies. I let myself be seen in Bad Neighbourhoods associating with Unsavoury People. And finally, as the cherry on top, I start frequenting a truly horrendous drug den. 

Which leads to the question of drug use itself. It is, of course, impossible to infiltrate a crack house and then take a pass when the bowl is being passed. Anything beyond that is just to make it convincing. For the case. 

Besides -- counterintuitively -- I don't fall when I'm high. 

Not even on this early morning, when I'm well on my way down. I suddenly hear a very familiar voice say, "What, you think I know a lot of people here?" 

Logically, I should stay still, but I can't deny the thrill of sheer joy it brings me to hear John's voice after a month of no contact except some very cursory texts. Besides, I can recruit John to help me with the case. Brilliant! 

One urinalysis and several slaps later, I'm feeling considerably less brilliant. There are a plethora of reflective surfaces in the lab, and I am shocked at my reflection. Apparently I've been a tad too meticulous: I look positively wasted. That's good for the case, but Molly is furious, and John -- John is _seething._ I have to submit to a scathing lecture, then he insists on driving me home. 

Where my day just keeps getting worse. The knocker's been straightened -- I know what that means. Sure enough, Mycroft is waiting for me by the staircase, all six foot two of him vibrating with righteous, priggish indignation. There are noises upstairs, and I take the stairs two at a time to find Philip bloody _Anderson_ and members of his pathetic fan club rooting through my cupboards. 

Too much; this nonsense is simply too much. I get rid of the fan club by dropping Magnussen's name, get rid of my brother by literally twisting his arm, and send off Janine with a kiss. She's part of my plan to get to Magnussen, but I decide not to tell John that just yet. He's liable to consider it a bit not good. 

Finally, I'm alone with John. I try to sweep him up into the case, but it takes him a minute to get his head into the game. "Dinner...with wine...and sitting," he muses, acting very much as if he's just seen a white rabbit with a waistcoat and watch scurry past. I redirect his attention to Appledore and he visibly shakes it off. And once he becomes the recipient of Magnussen's unique "charm" he gets positively eager to help. I want to dance with joy: John and I, together again, taking down a bad guy, the way it's supposed to be. Admittedly, I'm going to catch hell for the thing with Janine, but wait until he sees how I handle the safe. He's going to be so impressed! 

************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

There's always something. 

I'd said those words to John the day we met, trying for a bit of humility to mitigate the frankly over the top showing off I was doing, deducing his cell phone. Usually, though, that something is a detail, inconsequential in the overall scheme of things. 

But this...this is _huge._ I'd followed a waft of Claire de la Lune up the stairs, expecting it to lead to Lady Smallwood. But the person facing me now is none other than Mary Watson. Well...sort of. The pert, cheery nurse is gone, leaving behind this cold-eyed stranger. _Should have investigated_ occurs to me, and I clamp down on a completely inappropriate giggle. The deductions flow easily enough now. This is no desperate housewife imitating what she'd seen on the telly; the kit she's done up in is professional grade. And the gun...that gun is more than professional grade. This lady isn't just some kind of agent; she's an assassin. 

"Is John with you?" she asks. 

"Downstairs," I answer, and her mouth turns down as she nods. I see real pain and regret in her eyes. Not entirely a façade, then; she really does love John. I ease a step forward and she snaps to attention like a cobra. 

"Oh, Sherlock, I swear, one step closer and I will shoot you." 

With all the confidence in the world, I reply, "No, Mrs. Watson. You won't." One more step... 

And I find myself stopped by a punch to the chest like being kicked by a mule. It seems to take forever for the neat hole she's drilled in me to fill with blood and spill over. _Gunshot wound, mid torso, professional assassin, point blank range..._ oh, this is bad. I find myself faced with the most important fall of my life: forward or back? I have only three seconds to decide, but time is elastic in my mind palace, and I stretch it to the utmost. Then, decision made, I fall, backwards and down. Down, down, down deeper than I ever thought it possible to fall. 

It is, ironically, Moriarty who jars me back to life. When he pronounces _John Watson is in danger_ I realize I cannot allow myself to sink into the serene, velvet dark. I find myself on the grand staircase of my mind palace. It's a long climb back to consciousness, dragging myself up the banister by my fingernails. But with each step I get stronger, until I finally burst into the light. There's a machine beeping behind me, a tube down my throat and a very surprised surgeon looking back at me. I suddenly understand that I had died: that was literally death before Moriarty's voice cut through the peaceful buzz that would have preceded my final sleep. 

The doctor barks words, but I can't understand them. The dark starts to descend again. Anesthesia, I realise. They have to finish now that I'm alive. I _must_ stay alive. _John...!_

************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

_...John. You don't tell him, Sherlock. You don't tell John._

My brain comes online midsentence as Mary repeats herself with intensity. _Don't tell John._ I manage a weak nod. She's absolutely right. I mustn't tell John. 

She has to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Sherlock is still kind of in denial about that drug use...
> 
> Next up: the sickfic portion. Mofftiss left a LOT out, so this will venture into more unfamiliar territory.
> 
> Kudos and comments fuel my creative mojo.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the sickfic portion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, you don't get up from open heart surgery and scarper across London without consequences. Here are the consequences.

Actually, once Mary's cards are on the table, it's easy for me to forgive her. And it steels my resolve to fulfill my original quest: 

Slay the dragon. 

Take down Magnussen. 

Unfortunately, my transport is not on board for the mission. After my AMA jaunt to Leinster Gardens, I realise I had miscalculated horribly. I knew I had surely torn some internal stitches, but I thought that would be an easy fix. It surprises me that I come to feeling worse than I had after the first surgery. I'm literally as weak as a kitten, and I feel... _sick,_ in a way I hadn't before. 

John is seated at my bedside and I see him lean forward as my eyes open. "You're awake?" I try to nod, but it translates to the merest twitch on the pillow. It seems to suffice, though. "What the hell, Sherlock," he breathes. "I'm tempted to call for a psych eval as soon as you're strong enough. That stunt you pulled was damn near suicidal. We nearly lost you again; do you understand that?" 

I try to speak but can manage only a voiceless whisper. "Got...confession." 

John answers this with a bark of mirthless laughter. "You did. Yeah. You got the confession." He leans forward to scrub at his face, and for a moment, I fear he is crying. But then he looks up, and his eyes are hard and bright. This is the look of somebody who's been hurt to his core. I open my mouth, but John shakes his head. "No, no talking. I need you to understand how severely you set yourself back. What was going to take weeks is now going to take months. The good news is, at least you'll be living with a doctor during your convalescence." 

He's talking about himself, surely, but then is he leaving his pregnant wife? I mouth, _Mary...?_

"Can rot," he snorts, and I flinch away from the bitterness in his eyes. Oh, John, I'm sorry. I have to fix this, but I'm too tired to put my thoughts in order, and sleep pulls me back under. 

This is the pattern for what seems a long time. I'm conscious more than I'm lucid, and at first, words and activity swirl around me with no real comprehension on my part. Gradually, I do get stronger, and after three weeks, I'm able to put my feet on the floor and embark on a three-step hike from bed to chair, which leaves me quivering and exhausted, but also foolishly proud of myself. Three more weeks after this milestone and I find myself in the hallway of 221B facing a mountain. Granted, the mountain has seventeen steps cut into it, but still... 

"We take this as slowly as you need to," John murmurs. I have an arm around his shoulders, and he has one around my waist. I place my foot on the first stair and he gives me the boost I need to place my other foot firmly beside it. He's stronger than he looks, my army doctor, actually supporting most of my weight. Despite his help, though, I'm panting as we reach the landing. 

"Sit and rest," John commands, and we do. I'm leaning against him and I think I ought to sit up straight, but it's comfortable this way and John doesn't seem to mind. I don't even realise my eyes have closed until I feel John nudge me awake. 

"Ready for part two? You had a little kip for about half an hour there." I nod and try to bounce to my feet, only to be forcibly reminded my body doesn't do that anymore. "Slow," John exhorts, and indeed, that's the watchword for my life now. It takes days to summit the staircase, and then it's an hours-long trek to the sofa. Well...I exaggerate. But I'm used to paying my body very little mind, and to have to map out the steps I need to do something as simple as turning on my side is galling. 

Thanks to Mycroft, we have twenty-four hour nursing coverage and a plethora of equipment, enabling John to maintain a light work schedule while supervising my care. There's a bewildering regimen of pills, potions, and treatments, along with constant monitoring of every possible bodily function. It occurs to me I must be very sick indeed, because I should find all this insufferable, but I'm unable to muster more than mild irritation. 

Two weeks into it, I'm feeling chuffed because I managed a shower All By Myself (sitting on a stool, but it still counts.) John, however, frowns during the morning poke-and-prod. 

"Temp's up a tad. How do you feel?" 

"Fine," I say, and his frown hardens. I've dismissed too many serious symptoms with "fine" throughout our acquaintance for him to accept that answer. I try again. "I'm not having any discomfort. Maybe a little more tired than usual." 

"Huh." He roots around until he finds zinc lozenges. He gives one to me and passes the roll to the day nurse so it can join the pill parade. "The first sign of a sneeze, cough, or sniffle, I want to be notified." 

I remind him, "If it's a virus, it just has to run its course." 

"And I want that course as short as possible." His expression softens. "Any infection is concerning right now, Sherlock. If this is flu..." He leaves the thought unfinished, and I feel more than see the look that passes between my doctor and nurse. Then John gathers up his things and leaves. 

The day nurse is a raw-boned blond youth named Hunter. He announces, "I'll have breakfast ready in a tick." 

"Not really hungry yet," I demur, but of course, that changes nothing. Shortly, I find myself seated in front of a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs, toast with my favourite plum jelly, and tea. The food is certainly appealing, but one whiff tells me my body wants nothing to do with it. Still, John would be worried if I don't eat, so I pick up my fork and try to soldier through. A third of the way through, a sudden, sharp chill stabs through me with such force I drop my fork. Suddenly, I'm _cold,_ all the way to my marrow. I'm beginning to shiver violently, and hard on the heels of that comes the realisation those eggs aren't going to stay down. Hunter's alert, and he has the bin in front of me instantly. He holds my head as my stomach tries to turn itself inside out. "Jesus, you're burning," he breathes, but I can't spare a thought for that because, to my humiliation, the force of my retching has caused an equal and opposite reaction at the other end of my GI tract. _Betrayed by Newton,_ I muse as Hunter murmurs soothingly that it's fine; we'll have this sorted in no time. I retch again, so hard black dots dance in front of my eyes. Another spasm clenches deep in my gut, followed by more humiliation. Apparently, my intestines have decided they need to be empty and it needs to happen now. It all feels rather distant, though. My head swims as I fall back down towards the dark. It's not like velvet this time; more like ink, thin and bitter. No virus, this. _Something is very wrong..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have any medical training, so I hope I didn't get anything egregiously wrong.
> 
> Kudos and comments warm my heart and keep my typing fingers limber.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sickfic. Sherlock sets plans in motion.

Something's gripping my face. I reach up to paw at it, and my hand is gently but inexorably drawn away. 

"No, brother mine. Leave that alone." 

Mycroft. Huh. I try to pull away on principle, but he thwarts me effortlessly. _Regressed to kittenhood. How tedious._ I blink myself awake and my brother's face comes into focus, beak first. I cut my eyes around the room, and he correctly deduces who I'm searching for. 

"Dr. Watson went to the canteen. You're in hospital, Sherlock, have been for nearly a week. But you're doing better now." I quirk an eyebrow at him. "Dr. Watson can explain the details better than I," he demurs. I harden my glare and he replies, "My understanding is that a small fragment of the bullet broke off from the main body and went its own merry way, finally making a cosy little nest for itself on top of your colon. When the resulting abscess burst, it released a massive infection into your bloodstream. You've been battling sepsis, brother mine. Your fever spiked so high, they induced a coma to preserve your brain." He studies me carefully. "It _was_ preserved? You do understand me?" I mentally shoot death rays out of my eyes at him and note the tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth. For Mycroft, that's as good as falling on the floor laughing. Smug bastard. _Yes, you provoked a reaction. Well done, you._

The door creaks open and John walks in, breaking into a smile as he sees my open eyes. "Awake!" he cheers. 

My brother replies, "Awake, aware, and insufferable. I do believe we have him back." He gets up, retrieves his umbrella and nods a farewell to us. "Gentlemen." 

John slides onto the chair Mycroft vacated. "Mycroft catch you up with what happened?" I nod. "Scary stuff, but you've turned the corner now. I'm glad you were under for most of it; you would have been in terrific pain." 

My belly is itching. John sees me reaching to scratch and stops me. "Don't. Stitches come out tomorrow." I'd had more surgery, then. I heave a sigh, which sounded much more impressive in my head. I'm so _sick_ of being sick! I catch John's eye and whisper, _"Home."_ But my friend shakes his head. 

"It'll be a few days yet." To my horror, I feel tears prickling. When had I gotten this weak? Adding to my shame, John sees and is quick to soothe me. "Hey, no. Sherlock, I will do all I can to get you home as soon as possible, OK?" I nod weakly and turn my face away. John deduces correctly that I need a little space to pull myself together and busies himself rattling around the room. 

************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

As soon as possible turns out to be two days later, and the price for leaving the hospital so soon is I have to let the paramedics carry me up the stairs on a dolly, like a refrigerator. John cracks a joke about needing a muzzle, which I don't understand and am too tired to ask about. Getting ready to leave had been draining. By the time I'm settled on the couch, I'm done in, sound asleep before the door closes behind the paramedics. 

Indeed, it horrifies me how casually my transport has shouldered aside my intellect, asserting its supremacy. It ruthlessly enforces its need for a ridiculous amount of sleep. And it saps my will, making me meekly accept whatever John coaxes into me, be it pill, potion, porridge or puree. 

Days slide by. I gradually get stronger, but progress seems very slow. Mostly, I alternate between sleeping and blankly staring at whatever foolishness is parading across the screen on the telly. Today marks my twentieth day home, and I'm engaged in the latter activity when John presses into my hand one of those horrible meal supplements that pretend to be milkshakes. Just that suddenly, I'm thoroughly fed up with it all. I shove the offending item away with, "No. Tedious." and glare upward, spoiling for a fight. Instead, to my surprise, John is smiling, relief shining out his eyes. He says: 

"Well. There you are." 

And that's it in a nutshell. It dawns on me that the reason for this sudden shift is I finally feel like myself; albeit a weak, needy version of myself. For the first time in ages, I'm able to focus on something beyond my transport's immediate demands. However, what I observe disturbs me greatly: 

John is unhappy. 

The contrast could not be greater between the light-hearted, laughing groom and the hunched-over, bitter man currently sharing my flat. I'm generally bad with emotions, but this is so elementary I'm sure I'm getting it right. John is happy with Mary, and unhappy without her. Therefore, to be happy, John has to forgive Mary. 

So what prevents him from doing that? First thought: the lie. With John's history of trust issues, I could see how that would be difficult for him. But from Mary's perspective, a former security agent, probably with a string of lethal enemies looking for her -- of course she had to protect her identity. That wasn't _personal._

Second thought: She shot me. Flattering, I guess, to think John would feel so strongly about that, but of course, there's no comparison between me and the love of his life. She had done it to protect their lives together; surely, that motive counts for something. Besides, _I've_ forgiven her, and mine should be the deciding vote on that matter. 

Finally: the baby. John positively would not abandon a child of his, which means there is going to be a custody battle. I've had clients present me with these types of cases (although I seldom take them) and they're soul-shredders for everyone involved. John's soul cannot stand any more shredding. Logically, therefore, he must forgive Mary. 

I know I can't just lay out my logical arguments; for some reason, when it comes to relationships, that never works. I have to sprinkle the notion into our regular conversations, like salt. My first mention of Mary is greeted with a stony glare and deafening silence. But small drop of water can erode rock, and I have nothing but time. 

Days pass, then weeks. As if it's finally remembered what it's supposed to be doing, my body starts healing steadily. One by one, the pill parade diminishes until I'm taking only two: a multi-vitamin and a beta blocker (my heart having developed a habit of occasionally skittering off in eccentric rhythms.) Finally able to be productive, I start pulling together the plan whose foundation I laid while still in the hospital, having a lunchtime tete-a-tete with the dragon himself. This requires a flurry of phone calls. The first one is a lark: 

"Mummy? I was thinking: I nearly died three times this year, and it put me in mind of some things I don't usually pay mind to. Do you think...mind you, I'm not saying I want to do this from now on, but just this once...do you think we can have a family Christmas? The whole family? And can I bring guests?" I smirk, thinking how Mycroft is going to howl. But when she has her heart set on a family function, Mummy is a force of nature. He'll be there. 

The second call I make only after John has gone out. There'd be hell to pay if he overheard this one: "Billy? Shezza. Come with me to my parents' for Christmas. And I need you to bring something. No, not wine, a sedative. And it has some very exact specifications..." 

The third call is the hardest. "Mary?..." 

Right. All parties on stage. Now the hard part: convincing John. I carefully scatter more and more seeds of my salient points into our conversations. I'm not being nearly as subtle as I think I am, though, for after a couple of weeks of this, he cocks his head at me and asks: 

"Trying to get rid of me?" 

I gape at him, then shrug. "Trying to help." 

"Hmmm." He settles himself in his chair and points commandingly to mine. I hasten to position myself on it. "All right, help. Pretend it's a case and walk me through it. Exactly why should I allow a mercenary assassin in my life or the child's?" 

Well, that's surprising. But John's been surprising me since the day we met. So I do exactly what I thought I wouldn't: I lay out my arguments logically. My point about the necessity of her concealing her identity gets a begrudging _hmph._ His expression is completely shuttered as I discuss her shooting me, but softens when I mention the baby. I play that angle up, playing on his loyalty and sense of duty, until he holds up his hand to stop me. He gets up to pace a bit, then turns back to me. 

"All right. I'll make you a deal: I promise to think this through, very deeply. In return, you are to drop it. Not another word out of you. Not a word, not a hint, not a question, not even an _expression._ You've said your piece; now I'm going to make a decision. If I detect any hint of manipulation on your part, I am _done._ Is that clear?" 

I manage a jerky nod. "Crystal." 

John's eyes bore into mine a moment longer, then he gives a crisp nod, executes an about face, and leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: fateful decisions all around. Sherlock and Mycroft discuss options.
> 
> Kudos and comments put big smiles on my face.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock make momentous decisions.

Ten days go by without any hint of what John's thinking. I'm standing at the window, violin in hand, contemplating the passage of time. The trees had barely finished leafing out when I got shot; now, they're turning colours, and a few overachievers are already partially nude. I hear John coming down the stairs. He stands behind me and clears his throat. "Sherlock?" His tone is so pregnant, I don't have to see him to make the deduction. 

_Come to tell me he's going back to her. Mission accomplished._ I turn to face him, and... 

Falling. Falling, falling; falling very fast. Christ, it had never been like this before. I can't even feel my feet, let alone try to scrape one on the floor. It goes on and on for two full minutes before it ends, so suddenly I can almost hear the thud as I land. John's bending over me and I'm sitting down -- when did that happen? He frowns in concern as he presses two fingers against my carotid. "Better, still a little tachy. What was that?" 

"Just got a little lightheaded," I reply. 

"A little?" John shakes his head and pulls out his mobile. "I'm making an appointment with your cardiologist." 

"John, it's nothing," I protest. 

"It's not nothing; it's an episode of arrhythmia and I want it checked out." 

I open my mouth, but the look on John's face makes me close it again. Captain Watson is taking no prisoners on this one. Very well, I shall submit to this appointment and when I get a clean bill of health, perhaps he can lose one of the stress lines on his face. I wait for him to finish on the phone, then bring us back to the topic at hand: 

"You were about to tell me something." 

"Yeah." He frowns a bit as he orders his thoughts. "Mary sent me a picture of her latest ultrasound. Seeing it...it hits home, you know?" I don't, but I make the expected hum of agreement, and he goes on. "I don't know if I can forgive Mary, but you're right about the baby. I owe it to our child to give our marriage every possible chance. So...not right away, but once you're 100%, I'm going back." 

"I'm close enough to 100% now," I offer. 

John snorts at this. "Says the man who just passed out in front of me." 

"No, really..." I stop, suddenly understanding the subtext. John was _willing_ to go back, but not quite _ready._ How does one make a soldier ready? By giving him a deadline. "Christmas," I blurt. John raises his eyebrows inquisitively, and I realise I've skipped too many steps for him to follow. "I hereby invite both you and Mary to celebrate Christmas with my family in Surrey. It's a big, rambling country house; several fireplaces and lots of cosy corners suitable for intimate conversations." 

His expression grows thoughtful. "That might be...bloody well perfect." 

"Settled, then." I go to retrieve my violin: time to brush up on some carols. "You'll celebrate Christmas with the Holmses this year." _And my present will be to see you happy again..."_

************************************************************************************************************************************************ 

There's always something. They should inscribe that on my tombstone. I had been so sure my plan would work, and my confidence soared when I received Mycroft's tacit permission to proceed. _("There must be something in the punch." "No doubt. Have some more.")_ But now my carefully crafted plan lies in shreds. Or rather, spatters. Gobbets. I feel hysteria building and clamp down on it ruthlessly. Must focus. I very visibly drop the gun and yell at John to stay well back as a swarm of red dots converge on me. Mycroft's shouting "Stand your fire!" as I raise my hands and fall to my knees... 

And keep falling. It's the most intense fall yet; it feels as if I'm going to fall straight through the earth. The feeling persists as I'm cuffed and dragged away...dragged literally, because I can't feel my feet. 

"Do you understand?" Huh. Seated. White room. Where? "Please respond, Mr. Holmes." How? I have no mouth. I have nothing but the sensation of falling. 

Light. Bright light in my eye, away, back again. Different man leaning forward, studying me. "Pupillary responses normal. But he's shocky." He gives me a small smile. It looks sympathetic. "Not exactly a hardened killer, are you?" Hardened, no. I'd had to kill several times on my mission to take down Moriarty's web, and it made me sick every time. My hearing fades out and comes back in time to hear him say, "...pam. We need to get this tachycardia down." Pam sounds promising. So many choices: lorazepam, benzodiazepam, Pam Evans, who runs the evidence locker at NSY...We could have a Pam party... 

Cell. I'm lying on a thin mattress on a built-in platform. Across the way is an area that would serve as a desk and chair, similarly built in, everything integrated so there's nothing I can take apart. Small mercies, the stainless steel toilet has a privacy screen, only waist high, but it'll cover the bits that need covering. Thick door, seamless from this side, window reinforced with wire and a slot suitable to pass through meal trays and other sundries. 

I sit up carefully. The sensation of falling is still there, but it's faded into background information and I shove it down forcefully. No time for that now; I have to _think._

A harsh buzz and metallic thunk herald the unlocking of the door. Mycroft walks in, and at the sight of him, cold dread squeezes my heart. My powerful, unflappable brother looks ... _crumpled._ Not just his clothes; there are tiny lines on his forehead, around his eyes and mouth, that tell the story: _he can't fix this._ I realize that not too far under my façade is a little boy who really does expect his big brother to fix everything. Well, time to grow up. 

They bring in a folding chair and he sits, deducing me in his turn. "Why?" he asks. 

"There is no vault in Appledore," I explain. "With only a few exceptions, all the information he collected on people was in his mind palace. In his brain." 

"And so you destroyed the brain. Logical, but very messy." He leaned forward intently. "Why did you not trust me with this? Magnussen was a businessman; we could have negotiated." 

"You know as well as I, there is no final negotiation with a blackmailer. It would have ended with us all under his thumb." A sudden memory washes over me, one so wrapped in drug haze I've tried to convince myself it was a dream, but I know it wasn't: Magnussen leaning over my hospital bed, his mouth millimetres from mine, forcing me to swallow his breath as he crooned I would grow accustomed to his touch. I have no doubt what he would have eventually demanded, and I would have been in no position to refuse. 

Mycroft's eyes narrow. "I'm missing something. What aren't you telling me?" 

"Irrelevant now," I demur. 

"Possibly not, if it goes to motive." 

That brings me up short. Had that been part of my motive? Possibly, but there was no proof of our encounter, so it couldn't help me. I shake my head. 

Mycroft sighs, but doesn't pursue the matter. "We need to discuss your options, then. I'm afraid there are no good ones." I gesture at him to continue. "The first is incarceration. Of course, it would be impossible to put you in the general population." 

"So my incarceration would be...this." 

Mycroft nods grimly. "The length of the sentence can be negotiated, but it would certainly not be less than 10 years." 

I laugh outright at that. "My brain would melt in ten days. You might as well just kill me now." 

"I concur. You're not going to like the alternative, but I beg you to give it every consideration. We can make a very strong case that you've been under extreme stress for the past three years. There's incontrovertible evidence of torture and your associates will testify to your erratic behaviour since your return." 

"Erratic behaviour...?" 

He smiles thinly. "Little things like being found in a drug den." 

Insanity defence? I protest, "I was neither insane nor high when I shot Magnussen." 

"We don't need to prove you were; we only need to establish mitigating circumstances. You would be remanded to a psychiatric hospital--" 

"No." 

"It's not _Bedlam_ , Sherlock it's a state of the art facility..." 

_"Next."_

He sits back with a huff of exasperation. "There is no next. Those are your choices." 

"Not quite." I draw a deep breath. God, how I want a cigarette! "I hereby accept your kind offer of employment." 

He pales. "That's suicide." 

"So are your other two options. At least I'll die on my feet, performing one last service for Queen and country. Say I exceed expectations and actually survive. Is all forgiven?" 

Mycroft shakes his head. "You'd be a fugitive. You'd still never be able to come home." 

"The life of a wanted man," I muse. "On the run not only from the bad guys, but the police as well. MI5, CIA, Interpol..." 

"All the above, yes." 

I paste a wolfish grin on my face. _"Game on."_ This is nothing but bravado, and it speaks volumes that he doesn't call me on it. He doesn't believe it's an issue, because he doesn't believe I can survive. Decision made, then. 

"I would have to get approval," he warns. 

"So get it. Off you pop. But first: may I have a visitor?" 

He nods. "Dr. Watson--" 

"Wrong Watson," I interrupt. "I need to see Mary. Without John knowing." I roll my eyes at the speculative look he gives me. "It's not like that; we haven't had a sordid little assignation. But we do need to speak." 

"I'll arrange it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's drug hazed memory is based on a deleted scene. If you've never seen it, find it on YouTube. It clocks the creep-o-meter all the way to the right.
> 
> I always kind of wondered why a psychiatric defence was never considered, considering all Sherlock had been through. So I decided to address that. (Actually, I have a long fic in the works that addresses it in great detail. Coming soon to an archive near you.)
> 
> Next: TAB revisited, and Sherlock's final fall.
> 
> Kudos and comments make the sun shine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895 and 2015 collide, and Sherlock's final fall.

After two days of an existence circumscribed by cold, hard tile, harsh fluorescent lighting, and metallic buzzes, clicks, and clatters, Mary is a welcome reminder that there is still softness in the world. Halo of soft blonde curls, powder blue cashmere pullover, crumpled-top suede ankle boots -- even the hug she wraps me in is soft. I let myself relax into it for a long moment. The falling sensation tries to shoulder forward, but I shove it back easily: Pam working her magic. 

After a moment, we separate. "Sherlock--" 

I lift a finger to stop her. We have only a few minutes, and I positively must speak my piece. "You have your safety. John has his family. You'll make him happy." My eyes drop to her distended abdomen. "I regret I'll never meet the littlest Watson. But I don't regret having done it. That man needed killing." 

Mary's expression is positively feral. "Oh, yes. Yes, he did." We share a grin, then I bring us back to business: 

"I need you to do something. Call this number." I enunciate the digits clearly, but not too slowly. I know she can remember. "It will go to voicemail. Leave this message: 'Shezza says everything, to go, immediately." 

Her eyebrow lifts. "Shezza, that's what Billy Wiggins calls you." 

I nod. "Billy and five hundred other homeless people in London. Don't jump to conclusions, Mary." She opens her mouth, but I shake my head. "Don't ask; I shan't answer. Just know that this favour pays for all." I drop my defences, letting her see my need. _"Please."_

"All right," she agrees even as that horrible buzz sounds, signaling our time is up. I'm allowed to indulge in another brief hug, then Mary is led away. 

************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

The private jet is ridiculously posh, considering it's serving as my gallows. Still, I'm not about to begrudge myself the indulgence. I settle into the butter-soft leather and stretch out my legs. I accept a drink from the flight attendant and make a mental note to add the alcohol to the list I'm compiling. So far, it's very short: a single hit of cocaine. I hadn't dared do more, with John being a doctor. But Billy had come through, tucking my entire stash into the secret compartments in my Belstaff. A quick trip to the loo had allowed me to take my first hit and arrange my inventory for an extended trip culminating in my final destination. 

A short taxi, and the plane is flying and so am I, pleasantly buzzed as I call up John's blog and read his account of how we first met. Such a fantastic beginning and such a painful end. Those last few words had been...awkward. Still, I'd managed to make him laugh; that's something. 

The hit's beginning to wane and I duck into the loo to inject a speedball. Once we're underway, I've got a dose of XTC just for fun, then a syringe of very fine heroin I'd been saving for a special occasion, and what could be more special than this? For dessert, I have a double serving of ketamine. If my calculations are correct, my heart should stop beating just as the wheels touch ground in Belgrade. 

I've just downed the XTC (with alcohol; must adjust the timing for the heroin accordingly) when the attendant hands me the phone. Mycroft, of course, and what he has to say drops a bomb on my carefully laid plan. 

Moriarty. 

Back. 

Shot himself in the head, but now he's back. 

Wait, that's familiar. Case? Cold case? Oh! Yes, very cold. Ricoletti...intriguing. Perhaps to figure out one is to figure out the other. Well, I'll be going on a different trip than the one I'd envisioned. I feel around in my pocket until I retrieve the breath mint, which I carefully bite in half. I don't want to fall completely down the rabbit hole, but I do need to break a few mental inhibitions for this to work. Then I dive into my mind palace and turn back the clock to 1895. 

It's quite a trick, that, and it wouldn't be possible if my endeavour to dismantle Moriarty's web hadn't taken me to Tibet. I had spent a month in a monastery there, recovering from some wounds. One of the monks, who spoke English, took an interest in me and showed me some techniques to calm my mind. Combined with the drugs, I'm able to immerse myself in a world 120 years gone. I even employ the meditation technique within my simulation, sitting in the lotus position for two apparent days, patiently waiting for my mind to drop the next piece of the puzzle into place. 

Success: "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," says Moriarty's voice. Well, that's unenlightening. Of _course,_ this is all in my mind. We verbally fence, and it's just as frustrating as dealing with the real man had been. Until he sticks the gun in his mouth, pulls the trigger, and jumps back up again: 

"Brrr! Well, _that'll_ get the cobwebs out!" 

I gape at him; perhaps I had bitten off more than half that breath mint? Everything's getting shaky -- literally. Moriarty croons, "It's not the fall; it's never the fall. It's the _**LANDING!"**_

It all gets a bit confused at that point. 1895 and 2015 twine together, each reality as compelling as the other. I'm so immersed, I don't even question it when Emilia Ricoletti's skeleton starts singing to me, only realizing the truth when I find myself dropped onto a muddy ledge where the waters of Reichenbach roar past. "Still not awake, am I?" 

So this is the stage for my final showdown with Moriarty. I have to admit it's appropriate. Contrary to my expectations of a cerebral chess game, however, it devolves into fisticuffs. A simple, physical confrontation -- and I'm losing. 

I hear a throat being cleared, then a familiar voice says, "Excuse me, Professor, I believe my friend finds your attentions a shade annoying." 

I smile as I regain my feet. Of course, it comes down to my conductor of light, my Boswell, my friend. John will see me through the aftereffects of this overdose, and together we'll tackle the Moriarty problem. There are always two of us. 

It's clear as day now what's going on. Moriarty is dead, as dead as Mrs. Ricoletti. But the idea -- of a vengeful bride or a criminal mastermind -- cannot be killed. So the puzzle will be, who is exploiting that idea? 

One question left, and John voices it: "How do you plan to wake up?" 

I gaze out over the chasm. "Oh...like this, I imagine." 

"Are you sure?" 

I smile at his honest concern. I'm past sure; I'm absolutely positive. I'm going to fall; I may well fall forever. But I no longer fear the fall. It's not the fall that will kill me. 

I raise myself up on my toes like a dancer, and leap. 

-fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, ambiguous end, as in canon. I've read several fics and metas that speculate that Sherlock's leap is actually going deeper into his subconscious, and Season 4 is a drug induced fever dream. It sure would explain the bizarre imagery, the continuity gaffes and plot holes big enough to drive a truck through. But time trundles on, and no sign of a Season 5 on the horizon....*sigh*
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story! Comments and kudos are cool water in the desert.


End file.
